


An unwanted conversation

by firstamazon



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe, Flight of the Noldor, Gratuitous Smut, M/M, Post-Darkening of Valinor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-19
Updated: 2020-04-19
Packaged: 2021-03-02 05:15:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,911
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23739709
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/firstamazon/pseuds/firstamazon
Summary: Fingolfin limped back to his camp, hood hiding his face. His entire body was bruised and hurt as if he had fought a bear. He laughed to himself as he called his men to lift camp. They would leave at the Mingling.
Relationships: Fingolfin/Naswë (Noldo OMC), Fingolfin/OMC
Comments: 3
Kudos: 11





	An unwanted conversation

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Kalendeer](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kalendeer/gifts).



> She gave me carte blanche, so here it is! A smutty fic of Fingolfin and Naswë, her OMC, and based on her story [A Feast of Ashes](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14594394/chapters/33729480). I had way too much fun writing this, and perhaps got a little carried away LOL.
> 
> I hope you like it! ^^

Fingolfin limped back to his camp, hood hiding his face. His entire body was bruised and hurt as if he had fought a bear. He laughed to himself as he called his men to lift camp. They would leave at the Mingling.

***

A cold breeze that rose from the sea made banners, hairs, and clothes lift to its mercilessness. Fingolfin’s tent was cozy and warm against the bitter winter of the Northern lands. On his desk, the evidence of long, wasted nights of planning without a real plan. A lit candle shed a flimsy light over piles of parchment with orders and pleas from his lords, a goblet of wine, blue and silver wax with his signet, a plate of food barely touched that has now grown as cold as the wind outside. Pinned underneath all that, an already tore map with rough inscriptions, and stains of wine was spread open. Fingolfin stared blankly at his half-brother’s hand letter, uncommonly unsteady and blotted as if done in a hurry (or among tears).

He still didn’t know what made Fëanor give him this map without Naswë’s knowledge or consent since Míriel’s barbaric brother was the only one who knew the way to Araman. The man would never have given up his power over Finwë’s detested family so easily. Fingolfin hated the idea of following that brute anywhere, but Fëanor had been in no condition of making decisions or ruling for the past months, even before their father…

Fingolfin bit back the tears that threatened to spill every time he thought he never had said a proper goodbye to Finwë. He knew he was also tired. He had been in council with his children, and Finarfin’s ever since his brother had left them and returned to Tirion. Fingolfin had tried comforting his desolated nephews with words that seemed empty for their abandonment. Still, they had huddled close nonetheless, as if their uncle was the only one capable of keeping them united – and warm and fed and away from desperation. Fingolfin knew he must lead their people, and the map was so infuriatingly messy! He ran a tired hand on his disheveled hair and stood up abruptly. The chair fell back, noiselessly, on the rug, and he started pacing his tent.

His musing was interrupted, for at that moment, Fingon’s head emerged from the flap opening. His son looked at him but didn’t say any reproaches for the lack of tidiness in his usually flawless appearance. There are none to give now. Fingon approached the desk, and his eyes flickered briefly over the map as he served himself of wine.

“We need to do something about this,” he said with a small smile.

Yes, but what? Trying to decipher Fëanor’s unusual scrabbles was pointless, but they needed further instructions of their own if they wanted to keep the pace and reach the Ice before… before what? Fingolfin feared it would be too late, even if he didn’t know what for. And so, as he thought about it, he realized that if he couldn’t – wouldn’t! – talk to his half-brother, he needed to speak with Naswë. Fingolfin groaned. 

The man had a savage temperament, was rude to absolutely everyone, including those he professed to like (could he love?), and he barely tolerated the sons of Finwë. He hated Finwë the most, but it extended indiscriminately to his prole. Except, perhaps, for Aredhel and Celegorm, who frequently were with him in Oromë’s woods.

But how in the hells of Arda was he going to approach Fëanor’s camp and, more, get the rare chance to talk to Naswë alone?

“Do you want me to try talking to my uncle?”

“No,” he answered quickly. Fëanor had been last than himself of late, and Fingolfin feared the reactions of his impulsive, Morgoth-poisoned half-brother. “No, leave him be.” _To his own paranoia._

“I can try to gather some information with Maedhros if that’ll help,” he said cheekily. 

Fingolfin gave him a look that made his eldest laugh out loud. He snorted with the delightful sound. Fingon didn’t need any excuse to look for Maedhros, and he would never say anything against it. But Maedhros around Fingon wasn’t a very reliable source of information since more than one side of his family resented his political choices, so similar to Fingolfin’s. Besides, Naswë was indifferent to his eldest nephew. But then… if the youths could manage to draw the attention of the Fëanorion brothers, he would be able to slip into Naswë’s tent without further problems – theoretically, at least.

“Do it, then,” he sighed. “Create a very loud diversion.”

Fingon's smile was so broad it split his handsome face in half. “Don’t worry about that, father. I already have the perfect plan.”

That said, he stepped to the flap eagerly, his body already tensed with anticipation.

“Fingon!”

The young man turned, smiling, rubbing fingers and smoothing his hair. Fingolfin had to repress another snort.

“The information first, do you hear me? Make your cousin write it down and ask a trustworthy man to bring it back and keep it until he’s called.” He didn’t want to take any chances if things with Naswë went ill.

“Don’t worry, we can be practical when we choose,” Fingon stepped to his side and planted a quick kiss on his cheek. 

Fingolfin squatted his head playfully and waited until his beaming, besotted son had left before preparing. He opened the flap and called for one of his men.

“Yes, my lord?” He was fully armed as if for battle, although the only battle they had fought until now was with the invisible hand of Manwë’s winter.

“Stand guard outside, please. Choose one other of your trust and let no one in. I am not to be disturbed. No one, am I clear? Not my half-brother, not my children.”

“Yes, Finwë Nolofinwë. It will be done, sire.”

Fingolfin inhaled sharply at that mention. They shouldn’t be saying those things, but by the time he was going to reply and chide him for that treachery, he had already left the tent. No matter. There were more important things to attend to.

He threw a fine green-moss cloak around the heavy one he already wore, pulling the hood to his nose. With his knife, he carefully made a new opening on the other side of the tent; one that wouldn’t be noticeable if someone peeked inside, and close enough to the surrounding mountains, so he would be hidden in their shadows.

Escaping his own camp was easy. The Noldor were more worried about getting the fires going, cuddling around one another to get warm and drinking. It was not he had expected (and hoped) for his people, but today it would have to serve his purposes. When he arrived at the Fëanorion camp, the guards were clearly distracted, looking behind their shoulders, laughing, and speaking in amused tones. He could hear there was some commotion inside the camp, and he hoped Fingon and Maedhros were doing their part.

He took advantage of their distraction to by-pass the first tent and moved discretely among his brother’s followers. Whence he approached the center of the camp, he distinguished loud cheers, whistles, and roaring laughter. A quick look near the biggest fire told him what his son was up to: both he and Maedhros were already half-naked, which was not a surprise. 

The surprise was that many around them were equally undressed – or undressing, as Fingon raised a mug of ale and drained it, receiving some boos. Maedhros banged his hands on an improvised table and stood up, showing the crowd the card he had on his hand that proved his victory. Deafening cheers saluted their lord’s victory over his cousin.

Startled and not a little amused, Fingolfin saw Celegorm moving from the shadows and tugging his cloak off, followed by Aredhel, who stood in naught but her nightgown, loose hair falling over her shoulders and covering her transparent dress. Angrod was there too, taking off his boots, while Aegnor, completely naked, rubbed his hands by the fire. Maglor clapped Argon on the back and laughed as their cousin struggled to undress his shirt but got stuck and needed to be helped. The rest watched and laughed, and Fingolfin only wondered how on Earth had Fingon convinced all of his cousins to join… whatever game that was.

Well, he shouldn’t be surprised. He smiled, thinking how Fingon’s brilliant flame had the ability to gather everyone around him like moths – even those who disliked him. Being with Maedhros only made the flame burn all the brighter. And it suited him. Fëanor’s followers screamed again around the cousins, and maybe that would draw even his half-brother’s attention. Fingolfin swallowed the lump in his throat. The last they had talked, Fëanor had punched him in the jaw. He hadn’t recognized him, or anyone. His brother needed help, and yet he felt it wasn’t in his power to help him. They needed to keep moving.

Encouraged by those thoughts, he approached Naswë’s tent and drew the hood down before he entered. It was very likely Míriel’s feral brother would kill anyone who entered his tent, let alone someone with a hidden face! Without waiting for an invitation that would never be accepted, he opened the flap. The fire of a torch stuck in the ground shone upon his face, and he was enveloped by a pleasant warmth.

He looked around and saw all the things that made Naswë such a singular person: his bow, a massive sword, and two long knives stood facing one side of the tent. There were also all types of animals’ skin hanging from improvised racks. No books. No scrolls whatsoever. Naswë wasn’t the literary type. 

But then, Fingolfin halted. On the furs spread over a low bed, Naswë’s gray-silver hair pooled underneath him like the very lake of Telperion. On the firelight, it shone pale gold, and his face was peaceful. Apart from that, Fingolfin couldn’t help noticing he was completely naked and seemed to feel no cold. His flushed skin glowed with the torchlight, and Fingolfin wondered briefly how anyone could sleep with such an uproar going around him. But then, Naswë wasn’t like most people, and he might be used to his nephews’ being… well, them. 

His eyes were captivated by the sight before him. The torchlight flickered with the wind, and Fingolfin followed the light that played on Naswë’s bare, muscled torso, his arms, powerful as Oromë’s, to his navel and a scar on his hip that disappeared inside his thigh. His manhood, dark against his belly, was not entirely soft, and Fingolfin swallowed hard, failing to drive his eyes away. Fascinated, he traced Naswë’s full lips, his thin nose, and squared jaw. He had never realized how beautiful the man was.

Naswë stirred in his sleep, and Fingolfin froze. It wasn’t enough to be caught sneaking into his tent, but staring would be too great an affront. And although he said to himself he must leave before Naswë awoke, he was enspelled by the thickness of his co… hair. His hair. He wanted to run his hand over that body, feel the smoothness of the white skin, and taste the musk of his sweat.

No, what am I thinking? Fingolfin thought he must be having hallucinations from the cold. With a little effort, he managed to tore his eyes and turned away to leave. He couldn’t be caught in here alone with Naswë while he slept, or else he would be skinned alive just like the animals around him. But as he opened the flap, he felt a strong hand on his arm, turning him around and putting a blade on his neck. He must have it hidden under the pillow, Fingolfin thought wearily. 

Naswë’s eyes flashed with a dangerous edge when he saw it was Fingolfin, and his nostrils flared like a predator scenting his prey. Fingolfin felt his heart hammer loudly, for suddenly, the man’s presence was overwhelming. Naswë was taller than he, and he loomed over his head as if he could squash him like a bug.

“What are you doing here, Finwëion?” He growled, breathing over Fingolfin’s face.

“We need to speak,” Fingolfin tilted his head slightly and felt the sharp bite of the knife. A hot trail ran down his neck.

“And that gives you the right to creep into my tent and spy on me, little one?” 

“I didn’t mean to,” he hissed, trying very hard not to rise to the bait.

“What do you want?”

Fingolfin would never admit it out loud, but as he breathed in Naswë’s scent of moss, leather, and furs, and felt the powerful body pressing menacingly against him, it felt infuriatingly exciting to be in this position. He swallowed hard, feeling the apple in his throat bob under the blade and back. Naswë followed the movement as well, perhaps amused with what he thought was fear.

But he would be wrong. The blood running hot in his veins was due to everything but fear. He was enspelled by Naswë’s height, and he studied those eyes as sharp and as cold as the blade on his neck. He moistened his lips slowly, thinking of how he would make the man get off him, but at the same time wanting to close the distance between their breaths, knowing that Naswë most likely would find his burgeoning length utterly outrageous.

“I already told you. We must speak. Now, will you take the knife out of my throat, or shall I take it from you?” He challenged.

It was ridiculously foolish. Not because he couldn’t take the knife if he truly wanted – Naswë was a skilled hunter, but Fingolfin had trained long and hard with Eonwë himself and had proven to be a match even for the Maiar. It was absurd because here he was, invading this man’s tent and making threats. Naswë stared at him from above like a hawk. The blade was still held firmly against his neck, and Fingolfin couldn’t guess what the man was thinking. 

Most likely, Naswë saw him as weak and as pathetic as Finwë. But Finwë was dead, his half-brother was mad with grief and poisoned by Morgoth’s dark words. They needed Naswë to collaborate; they needed Naswë’s help. Fingolfin exhaled noisily and lowered his eyes.

“Fëanor is not himself, you must know this,” he tried. Naswë remained silent. He was not much for words, either. Fingolfin bit back an exasperated sigh and decided it was better to cut to the chase. “I need your help to lead my people as much as you need mine to control our king!” 

As Fingolfin spoke, he looked up and heard Naswë draw in a surprised gasp, for the light in his eyes shone as fierce and bright as that of the stars. Fingolfin took advantage of the moment and grabbed Naswë’s wrist, driving the hand and the knife away from his neck. Without knowing exactly what he was doing, distantly thinking he was half as mad as Fëanor, he took it to his lips and licked the knife with his blood on it, eyes locked on Naswë. If the man wanted an oath, there it was. 

Fingolfin felt as blood trickled down his chin and throat, and Naswë merely watched the red stain his marble-like skin. Unexpectedly, though, the Hunter leaned down and slowly licked the dripping blood, leaving a wet track that grew almost instantly cold and sent shivers down Fingolfin’s spine. Naswë licked his lips, then, gentler than he would have expected. Fingolfin thought it was just it, the completion of an oath, but he opened his mouth instinctively and pushed his tongue back.

For a moment, Naswë stood absolutely still, wide-eyed and stupefied. Maybe that wasn’t at all what the man had envisioned. A second later, however, Fingolfin heard the clattering sound as the knife fell from Naswë’s hand at the same time the man fell on him with full force. Calloused hands buried on either side of his head, pulling his hair and plunging voraciously, forcing his mouth open to welcome his tongue to the point it ached.

Blood, earth, and fire. Naswë tasted like the wilderness and the freedom of the woods. Fingolfin didn’t want to know what had made the Hunter change his opinion, so he boldly yanked the other’s hips, and their bodies clashed even closer. Naswë gasped in his mouth, and Fingolfin moved his hands down, from his chest to the belt. They didn’t break the kiss as cold stiffened fingers deftly unbuckled, unlaced, shoved pants down and shirts up. Fingolfin hadn’t realized how hungry he had been as even the touch of the Hunter alighted a lust he didn’t know he had.

Soon they were both half-clad, breeches on their knees as their bodies pressed closer, seeking each other’s heat against the bitter winter as much as the feel of skin on skin. Fingolfin traveled his hand from the flanks, over Naswë’s scar on the hip to the tip of his cock, and felt as the Hunter shivered, gooseflesh breaking on his chest and arms. Fingolfin licked his throat and neck until his earlobe and reveled as the elder elf couldn’t suppress a low hum. 

Fingolfin gasped as Naswë pulled his hair back and licked the cut, sucking on his blood and making him moan aloud. He didn’t know how Naswë accepted it – it wouldn’t do any good to rationalize any of this – so Fingolfin wrapped his hand on both their blood-swollen lengths and drew on them. Naswë looked down then back up at him, astonished at his straightforwardness. But the hand that stroked the engorged shaft slowly, as slowly as the wet kisses, didn’t stop, and he moaned on Fingolfin’s neck, jerking his hips upward as blinding pleasure built.

Naswë covered Fingolfin’s hand with his own, and the tight grip squeezed the seed out of his body. Fingolfin gasped as Naswë bit his shoulder to muffle a groan. For a moment, the world seemed to have muted, and their ragged breaths were the only thing that could reach Fingolfin’s senses. As he regained conscience, he realized the uproar outside the tent had only increased. 

Naswë’s hot breath dampened the crook of his neck, and he inhaled the earthy scent of the Hunter. When he finally withdrew, they shared an amused look, but Naswë didn’t smile. Perhaps, still dazed by the orgasm, he didn’t have the strength to do what usually cost him so much: smiles never came easy on his half-brother’s uncle. He stepped aside unsteadily and searched for a clean cloth among his belongings. He wiped his hand and belly and threw it at Fingolfin so he could do the same.

“I think we finally understand one another, Hunter,” Fingolfin gave him a sly smile.

“Don’t count on it, Finwëion,” Naswë growled less fiercely than, perhaps, he would have wanted.

Fast like a fox, Fingolfin took the knife from the floor and raised it to Naswë’s throat, pinning him on the table behind him. Something flashed in the Hunter’s eyes that weren’t exactly (or not only) anger.

“You _will_ help us.” 

Naswë didn’t blink when the blade drew blood. Fingolfin leaned to lick at the cut, biting the neck and savoring the taste of the flesh until he heard a sharp intake of breath. He pressed closed, feeling Naswë’s body waking again, most likely against his will. His own body was thrilled at the response, and he felt dazed with the power over the other.

“Or what? Will you kill me?” This time his body’s betrayal was made clear, for Fingolfin heard the unsteadiness of his voice, and there was not even a hint of the threat he was used to hearing.

“Of course not,” deliberately slow, Fingolfin licked his jaw and left a wet trail to suck at his earlobe, and smiled as he heard Naswë struggling to fight back a moan. “But I can make you beg, and neither of us would like that, would we?”

He stepped back with a mischievous smile on his face as he saw Naswë’s eyes widen, dangerous, and fell. If there ever was a moment to be murdered, this would be it, he thought. Instead, it was Naswë’s turn to make the apple of his throat dance up and down as lust glazed his darkened eyes. He plunged to kiss again, but Fingolfin put the knife between their lips and smiled wolfish-like.

“Uh-uh,” he tutted. “You can get your prize only after you help me.”

“What makes you think I cannot take it from you?” Naswë’s brilliant eyes flashed as he showed his teeth.

“You could try,” he smirked. 

Fingolfin took Naswë’s finger and ran it casually on the edge of the bloodied knife.

“I could kill _you_ ,” he husked, no longer trying to hide the desire that boiled in his veins.

“You could,” Fingolfin admitted, bringing the finger to his lips and licking the blood clean. “But I promise you the reward for your compliance will be well worth it.” 

As he said it, he gently closed his teeth and slipped it in his mouth, sucking it greedily. Naswë inhaled and shuddered, hypnotized and breathless at the sight of his finger wrapped around those blood-red lips, a mere insinuation of what already raged behind his eyelids. He withdrew the finger and plunged in again, enveloping Fingolfin in an all-encompassing embrace. Naswë’s nose buried in his neck, one hand holding his head in place and the other traveling from the small of his back to his buttocks, pressing him close. 

Fingolfin laughed softly in his ear and pushed his chest back. “All in its due time.”

A hand stroke as fast as a serpent and closed around his throat. With a gulp for air, Fingolfin was reminded, yet again, he was toying with a wild bear. Naswë kissed him again and forced him back until he fell on the furred bed, the Hunter’s full weight pressing against his lungs.

“Now,” he growled.

Fingolfin laughed again as he felt the hard length pressing against his thigh. If Naswë was a bear, Fingolfin was a panther, and he flipped Naswë on his back and locked the powerful wrists with one hand. Naswë’s eyes widened, and he panted as Fingolfin ground against him. Fingolfin hadn’t planned any of this, but he would show who was the one with the power. So he kissed Naswë deep and hard, biting down the muscled chest, the flat stomach.

The breath of his laugh misted over the shaft that throbbed impatiently under his nose. He looked up at Naswë, who watched him with eyes wide and black with lust. Fingolfin drew a long lick over the erection and laughed softly, thoroughly amused as Naswë gasped and clutched his head.

“Tell me about the route,” he said between licks, eyes locked on the Hunter’s.

“If we follow this pace, we should reach the borders of the Pelóri Mountains soon,” he said hoarsely. Fingolfin encouraged him by sucking the tip.

“How many days?”

“Four-Ah!” 

Fingolfin swallowed to the hilt and withdrew, laughing at Naswë’s breathlessness, his parted lips, and bewildered eyes.

“And the course?” 

Naswë growled again and forced his head down.

“Careful now!” Fingolgin hissed. “It would be most unfortunate if I accidentally bit you.” 

The grip on the back of his head eased. 

“Now,” he lowered again and licked the glistening tip “… talk!”


End file.
